Rescue My Heart
by Mia Shade
Summary: When Fred’s soul begins to inexplicably disintegrate, Wes races to save her only to find that the cure lies within Fred herself, where an old enemy suddenly and mysteriously wants to help...Sequel to Rekindle the Lost. Surprise!
1. Chapter One

Rescue My Heart

By Yasashii Tsubasa

Summary: When Fred's soul begins to inexplicably disintegrate, Wes races to save her only to find that the cure lies within Fred herself, where an old enemy suddenly and mysteriously wants to help…Sequel to Rekindle the Lost. Surprise!

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Distribution: The usual haunts; I believe you know who you are. Anyone else, please ask first, as usual.

Rating: PG-13, but very close to R for violence and adult content. Nothing huge, but just to be safe.

A/N: I hate to turn a reader away, but if you're here and haven't read 'Rekindle the Lost', you should definitely go read it first (and review). In fact, it's assumed that you've read RtL. This will make no sense whatsoever if you haven't.

* * *

Chapter One 

Dusk.

It was the uncomfortable transition period between the days and the nights, a time when some creatures went off to bed while others—all-too familiar others—came out to play. In Los Angeles, some people liked to go for an evening swim or surf in the ocean; some enjoyed the boardwalk or the docks with their carnivals and stores; others were just coming home from work, going to their children or lovers or roommates, or perhaps to an empty, cold apartment and a microwave dinner.

Fred was sitting on the railing of her balcony, watching the sun set.

She had taken up the habit of making a cup of tea and sipping it slowly as she watched the rays of the sun fall below the water, perched on the wide railing of the balcony with her back against the wall and one foot resting on a chair to anchor herself. From her balcony, Fred could see the entire ocean, a luxury that she'd only noticed after Illyria.

Before then, Fred hadn't noticed a lot of things. Now, she did.

She smiled softly as the colours of the sky began to shift from yellow to orange, with purple showing very slightly near the surface of the water, and took a sip of the tea, feeling the warmth flow through her bones. Wesley had given Fred this tea, explaining that his grandmother had given him the recipe for the homemade brew as a boy, so he could make it himself. It was a mixture of roses, lavender, ginger and a hint of cinnamon, and, Wes explained, it was excellent for keeping away nightmares.

Fred drank it every night nowadays. She needed some insurance.

The sounds of the city melted into silence as Fred meditated on her own thoughts. It had been months since Wesley had rescued her from Illyria, and sometimes those months seemed like years, but sometimes—on bad days, on days when things were off and not quite right from the moment Fred awoke—it seemed like minutes ago that she had swung her sword around to slice off the head of the ancient goddess, the day that she had cheated all kinds of fate and had died a second time only to come back again.

Fred felt a painful twinge in her stomach where she'd been stabbed on that day, even though she showed no trace whatsoever of any scar or any indication that such a thing had happened to her. She often wondered how many days she had left before death came to reclaim its rightful property and took her away from Wesley and from life. It was an unsettling thought, to be sure, but Fred found it less frightening than some of the things that her mind cooked up in her dreams.

The sky was now a deep and shining red colour, the shade of fine wine, with streaks of pink and blue and cream-coloured clouds crossing it. _Red sky at night, sailor's delight,_ Fred thought with a small smile, draining the last of the tea. Maybe it was a good omen for a peaceful night to come, devoid of the nightmares that Fred could never really remember but knew had happened.

"Fred?" Wesley's voice pierced through to reach Fred's ears and blossom in her mind like a flower. "Are you in here, love?"

"Out on the balcony," she answered, setting down the mug and turning her head to see him step onto the porch and close the sliding door behind him. Wesley smiled softly, lifting Fred's chin with a finger and kissing her hello.

"Lovely evening," he commented casually with a smile. "I thought I might find you out here."

Fred grinned back. "You know I'm always here, Wesley," she replied. "Don't play stupid with me."

Wes pouted jokingly. "And I was having so much fun with it, too." His lips captured hers again, more seriously now; Fred surrendered gratefully, glad to be warm in his arms. She broke off the kiss and rested her head on Wesley's shoulder with a sigh. She was so glad that their love was still as innocent and wonderful as it had been before all of Illyria's mess, that they had picked up the pieces and started over from scratch.

"Are you cold?" Fred asked sleepily into Wesley's shirt, and felt him shake his head.

"You're always cold," he said with a chuckle. "It's one of those things you do nowadays, haven't you noticed? I have the feeling that you'd be chilled if we suddenly picked up and moved to Australia."

Fred looked at him, jokingly serious. "I didn't know that was an option. When do we leave?"

Wesley laughed and kissed her again, his arms surrounding her, and never before had Fred been so grateful for his love to keep her soul from freezing again.

----

The goddess stood before the void of black evil that was the Soul Stealer, her feet sturdy on the hard marble floor, eyes blazing in anger. Her form was shimmering, incorporeal in the temple, but the goddess stood ready to fight anyway. It was in her nature to do so.

The miniature black hole that stood between two pillars of the temple crackled and sucked at the air around the goddess' body, trying to intimidate her to no avail.

"Old One," it hissed softly, its voice dripping with hate. "You come, but you know that you cannot stop anything."

Her anger grew, hands curling into fists. "You know nothing," she spat. "I have made entire universes bow to me. You think I can't stop you? That I can't stop one soul?"

The thing laughed, the sound very much like gears grinding against one another. "Well, well, I see that you are still making idle threats. Even I couldn't possibly imagine it…the Old One, God-King of all worlds…reduced to a prisoner in a fragile human soul, forced to look after it like a housewife. You're not even able to completely be here, Old One, just a ghost of you," one tendril of pure darkness stretched out to caress goddess' cheek; she flinched and swatted it away, her eyes burning like fire.

"Don't dare to touch me," she whispered, and the tendril retracted.

"The disintegration has already begun," the black hole's voice whispered. "You cannot stop it, Old One, and you should not even try. It would be like trying to stop the world."

The goddess blinked and found that she had disappeared, rematerializing in the science lab of the soul house, shaking with barely controlled anger. In her mind she knew that the being was right; the deterioration was already happening, and it was only a matter of time before the effects began to show. The goddess knew that she had to stop it.

_I need his help,_ she realized silently. _I need him. I need them both. I can't allow this to happen._

_No matter the consequences, this must not happen._

----

Despite Wesley's jokes, Fred was still cold.

Even after months, she was still freezing in her dreams, still bombarded with the bone-numbing iciness that could only come from the deepest recesses of her soul.

She unconsciously murmured softly in her sleep, gathering the comforter closer to her body. Fred was only warm when she dreamed of Wesley; this was not that kind of vision. This was the coldest of all.

This dream was about Illyria.

She'd been having the dream almost every night for weeks now; it was always the same. In her mind, Fred saw the ancient goddess sitting in a chair in the library of her soul's house, reading one of Fred's favourite books; no matter how many times Fred saw the image, it always struck her as odd, to see Illyria reading _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_. Fred approached her carefully, her footsteps echoing on the marble as they always had and always would. Her soul was whole, the house complete as if untouched, but Fred was still cold. Some things had changed.

Fred stopped a few feet from Illyria's chair, wondering, as she had before, why the goddess was there.

"Hello, Fred," Illyria said without looking up.

"Illyria," Fred replied. "What are you doing here? I…I killed you."

There was a long pause; Fred knew, down to the last atom of the last cell of her body, what came next. Illyria continued reading for a few minutes, turning exactly two pages, letting the silence choke the room; then she closed the book and looked up to meet Fred's gaze for the first time in the dream. The deep blue eyes narrowed slightly, a sign of the tiniest bit of contempt, and her head tilted to the side.

"You killed me," the goddess echoed. "But you did not let me go."

Fred's eyes widened. "I'm not keeping you prisoner, Illyria! You can go anytime you want!"

Illyria shook her head. "You are still so ignorant," she said softly. "Do you think that matters of the soul are that easy? You keep me, yes, but you cannot set me free. That is not your decree to make." Her gaze dropped back to the book in her lap.

"Whose decree is it, then, Illyria?" Fred wanted to know. "Who makes you stay here? I don't want you."

When Illyria looked up again, her face was horribly mutilated, the skin burned until it had melted and slashed with a knife, her eyes blown from their sockets and hanging loose on her cheeks.

"It is coming, Fred," Illyria whispered in a voice straight from the depths of Hell; Fred put her hands over her ears to block it out, but to no avail. "Are you ready to die?"

"No!" Fred cried, backing away, desperately trying to reach the door of the library. "Just leave me alone! Please, please, leave me alone!"

The hellish thing that had taken over Illyria laughed, sending chills down Fred's spine. She turned and ran for the exit, but the marble floor was suddenly coated with blood and Fred slipped and fell, hitting her head on the ground and blacking out with the laughter resounding in her ears.

----

She never remembered the nightmare, never even knew that she'd had it. Fred always spent the rest of the night in black emptiness, dreamless, always freezing cold, nearly shivering.

Tonight, however, Fred heard Wesley laugh softly through the darkness like a sun coming to life in the emptiness of space; she felt his smile, and the warmth began to spread from her heart down her limbs. She was always warm when she dreamt of Wesley; Fred supposed it was his power as her soul mate.

In the dream Fred felt Wesley's embrace surround her like the softest of blankets, sensed his heartbeat next to hers, but still her world was black.

_Why can't I see you? _she wondered. _I still can't—_

He was speaking, interrupting her thoughts, repeating her name: Fred. Fred. Fred. Fred.

"Fred. Fred, love, wake up."

She opened her eyes to find the dream to be real, that Wesley was sitting there beside her on the edge of her bed, his hand resting beside her other hip, his weight on the mattress comfortingly real. The summer sun shone through the gossamer curtains behind him to fall on the quilt in lazy patterns.

Wes' smile was bright as he leaned over and kissed the top of her head, the scent of his cologne enticing in Fred's nostrils.

"Good afternoon, sunshine," he said softly, and Fred couldn't help but smile back.

"Hello," she replied pleasantly, still sleepy. "What do you mean by 'afternoon?'"

"Well, it's several minutes past noon," Wes replied, a tiny thread of worry appearing in his voice. "I've been trying to wake you for over four hours now."

Fred's brow furrowed. "You're kidding," she said, sitting up in bed and glancing at the clock, which confirmed Wesley's statement. "What…how did I not wake up? What happened?"

Wesley bravely kept his smile; she could tell that he was worried. "I was hoping you could tell me, but it doesn't really matter, I suppose. You're fine."

Fred sighed, her mind on something else. "She was here," she murmured, resting her head on Wesley's shoulder. "It was her. I could have sworn…"

"Who was here?"

Fred met his eyes. "I don't know," she replied, absently tracing the pattern of her quilt with the tip of her finger. "I…I can't remember. But she was here with me. We talked, I think, and then…" an involuntary shudder laced Fred's veins like acid. She closed her eyes, suddenly tired again.

Wesley gently ran his hand through her hair. "And then…"

Fred didn't respond.

" Fred?" Wesley pulled her back to look at her and discovered that she was limp, her eyes closed in sleep or unconsciousness. "Fred!"

Staring at her with panic coursing through his veins, Wes hoped he was imagining the tiny flash of blue in Fred's hair that quickly faded. No matter how he tried, she wouldn't wake.

Wesley closed his eyes, praying that he was just having a very bad nightmare. Fred's sleepy words came back to him.

_She was here. It was her._

Illyria.

A moment later, Fred's eyes opened and she smiled as if nothing had happened.

"Wesley? Are you going to let me get ready for work?"

Wes swallowed his fear and nodded, releasing Fred from his arms and watching her disappear into the bathroom for a shower as if nothing had happened.

Her hair was brown once more.

_Something is wrong with Fred, _Wesley realized. _And dear god, I have no idea what to do._


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: I'm so sorry that this took so long; however, this chapter is really awesome (or at least I think so), so it might just have been worth the wait.

* * *

Chapter Two

"Fred? Sweet cakes, you haven't even touched your food. Are you feeling okay?"

Fred forced a smile at Lorne, who was sitting across from her. They were sitting together in the eating area of Wolfram and Hart, having lunch as they did almost every week. It had been several days since Wesley had awoken her that morning, and Fred had gotten steadily worse. "I'm okay," she said, looking down and absently playing with her salad. "I feel sorta funny, but I think it may just be the beginning of the flu or something. I've been feeling strange all day, and yesterday I slept until noon again."

Lorne sighed. The girl sitting across from him was pale and thin, with black bags beneath her eyes and a sallow, sunken look behind her glasses. _She looks like the flu's already moved in, unpacked, and put its feet up for a long stay,_ he thought. "Well, why don't you just go on upstairs to your apartment and have a nap? Someone can cover for you. In fact, I'd cover for you, if I knew exactly what it is you do in that lab. In fact, why don't I go in there and wing it for a little while? You never know; it might do the scientific world some good."

Fred's forced smile blossomed into a real one. "Or you could blow up the lab," she replied, giggling softly at the thought. Lorne reached over across the table and lifted Fred's chin so their eyes met.

"There's the Freddles I know," he said with a smile. "I knew she was somewhere in there. Take care of yourself, all right? Work can wait."

Fred nodded and stood to leave. "Okay, Lorne. Thanks."

"Anytime, kiddo," Lorne replied, watching her go. The instant that Fred was out of earshot, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called Wesley's office.

"Wes, it's me," he said with a sigh.

"So you saw her?" the ex-Watcher asked. Lorne sat back and rubbed at his temples.

"Good lord," he replied. "I had no idea Fred was that sick. The poor girl looks awful! What have you been doing to her, Wes?"

"It's not me that's doing anything," Wesley said, sounding cross and worried at the same time. "I don't know what's wrong with her. Last night I took a blood sample while she was sleeping—nothing showed up when I ran the tests. By all apparent counts, Winifred Burkle is as healthy as can be."

Lorne's brow furrowed. "So why the heck does she look like a whole bunch of viruses ganged up and attacked her all at the same time?"

Wes sighed. "I don't know, Lorne," he replied. "But you can bet that I won't let it get her. Not this time."

"I hope not, Wes," Lorne said. "I don't think I could bear to lose Freddles a second time."

"Me neither, Lorne. Me neither."

----

_Protector._

The goddess jerked suddenly as the voice entered her mind; it was always something of a shock when the Powers That Be took in a visit. She scowled.

"What do you want?"

_The girl is dying,_ the voice, as silky and smooth as water, was like morphine in the goddess' mind. She collapsed into a chair, her limbs suddenly rubbery. _You knew that the Soul Stealer would not receive your plea, or else we would have given it the soul of another a long time ago. You are failing._

"I am not failing," the goddess spat, disgusted at the thought.

_You are. You must stop the disintegration of this soul at any cost, except that of the girl's life. She is not meant to die. Your punishment reminds you of that._

"Cease your needless drivel," the goddess snapped, forcing herself to stand. "I was in this world long before you were even an idea. You have no right to imprison me!"

_Your power is like that of a paramecium as compared to ours, Protector. You will save the girl, or you will die with her and be a slave to the Soul Stealer. It is your choice._

The goddess could feel the presence in her mind fading, a sign that whatever was just talking to her had vanished. She scowled again and began to pace.

"I will save her," she muttered. "And, in doing so, I will wrench myself out from under your thumb and be the God-King again."

----

Wes sighed as he put down the phone and went back to perusing his source book. Lorne's report had only continued to confirm what Wesley dreaded; something was terribly, terribly wrong with Fred.

A knock at his door pierced the silence. "Wes? Are you there?"

Wesley sighed, leaning back in his chair, utterly exhausted. "Yes, come in," he called, rubbing his eyes.

Gunn opened the office door and entered. "Hey, Wes."

Wesley tried to smile. "Hello, Gunn. How are things?"

Gunn sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm okay, I guess. You look like the last time you slept was at the beginning of the Ice Age."

Wes sighed. "I've just had a lot of work to do these past few days," he tried, suppressing a yawn. "You know how things are around here."

Gunn wasn't fooled for a second. "You're worried about Fred."

"It's that obvious," Wes muttered. It wasn't a question. "Well, considering the circumstances…"

Gunn sighed, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. "God, Wes, everyone's worried about her. She's sicker than I've ever seen her, and not getting any better. Today she could barely stand. There is something very wrong."

Wesley groaned and pushed himself away from the desk, standing up and starting to pace around the room, obviously distressed. "Do you think I don't know that?" he asked softly. "The blood test shows nothing. The test for magical influence shows nothing. Any test I do will show nothing wrong with her, and yet Fred continues to get weaker and weaker. I'm at the end of my figurative rope; I have no idea what is going on."

"Then what could it possibly be?" Gunn wondered. "Where could this be coming from?"

Wes sighed, dropping back into his chair. "As I said, I don't know. But dear lord, Charles," he murmured. "I am so very frightened for her."

Gunn couldn't think of anything to say to that; in his heart, he was frightened, too. Truth be told, he had never been more scared in his entire life than he was at that moment for Winifred Burkle.

----

The beginning of the nightmare was the same as it had always been; Fred saw Illyria reading in the library of the soul's house; she confronted the ancient goddess, and was once again faced with the hideous demon that was using Illyria as a vessel.

This time, however, Fred was bound to the floor.

Snakelike vines of darkness reached up from the marble floor and grabbed hold of Fred's ankles and wrists, trapping her in place. She was unable to run this time.

"Poor little Fred," the monster in Illyria whispered, rising out of the chair and descending to where Fred stood, helpless. "Poor, pitiful little Fred…but so beautiful…" the demon reached out and softly touched Fred's cheek, as gentle as a lover, but Fred felt the skin burn without leaving a mark where it touched her. When the demon's hand moved up and pressed against her forehead, Fred felt the shock of fever instantly rush through her body as an icy shiver.

"You are mine, Fred," the monster whispered tenderly. "And I shall have you. See you soon, my darling."

The tendrils holding her collapsed; so did Fred, falling and falling and never quite hitting the floor.

----

She awoke sharply in the next moment and found herself in bed, the sheets soaked in sweat and twisted every which way. Fred was breathing hard, as if she'd just run a marathon; she felt strange, light, as if she weighed nothing at all, and dizzy. The entire world was tilted at an angle, although Fred had no idea which one.

_Funny thought to have,_ she realized sleepily. _I must be the only person on earth to wonder at what angle the world tilts when you're dizzy. It looks like—_

When she tried to get up, Fred found that her legs refused to hold her; she crumpled to the floor, shaking from the effort it took to stand. As she lay there, with one cheek pressed against the carpet, panic began to seep through Fred's thoughts like liquid mercury.

_Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god, what's wrong with me? Is it Illyria again? Oh god, what do I do?_

Fred tried to tell herself that there was nothing to worry about, that she was just being unnecessarily paranoid, that she was just sick with the flu, but the thought jabbed at her anyway, like a sliver in her head. _Illyria is trying to take over me again._

Moving methodically but unsure of exactly what she was doing, Fred took the portable phone and dialled Wes' extension. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, leaning against the bedside table and closing her eyes against the dizziness that threatened to knock her out at any moment. After three rings, he picked up.

"Wesley Wyndam-Price speaking."

"Wesley? Wesley, it's me."

He immediately sounded concerned. "Fred? Fred, what's the matter? You sound—"

"—I had a nightmare," Fred blurted out, trying to force her fever-ravaged brain to explain. "I woke up and now I feel all funny, and I was—" her composure collapsed completely and Fred began to sob.

"Oh, god, Fred, please don't cry. It's all right."

"I'm so scared," she whispered, the tears hot and acidic against her skin. "Illyria. It's Illyria."

Wes was silent for several seconds, during which Fred tried desperately not to fall asleep. She wanted to lie down again, but something in her heart was preventing her from sleeping, a shadow that warned her of bad things in dreams.

"I'll be there in two minutes," Wesley finally said.

Fred sniffed. "Okay," she replied in a whisper, and let the phone drop from her fingers. Closing her eyes, Fred reached over her head and grabbed the top of the table. On a mental count of three, she desperately tried to pull herself up, but once again Fred's muscles failed and she collapsed back onto the floor. Her head, as heavy as a lead weight on her neck, hit the bedside table with a crash that reverberated around in Fred's brain like marbles rolling around in a box, and bright stars exploded in front of her eyes until they blocked out her vision and she fell out of reality again.

----

She saw Illyria, standing in the hallway of her soul's house. Fred met the goddess' eyes and realized that this was not her nightmare, that this was no vision imagined by her brain; this was real.

"Illyria," she whispered. "What's happening to me? What are you doing to me?"

Illyria stepped forward, cocking her head to one side. The look in her eyes was almost distraught.

"I apologize," the ancient demon whispered, before her hand struck out and pushed Fred squarely back into the real world.

----

Entering Fred's bedroom, Wes felt his throat tighten as he noticed the empty bed with its twisted sheets. He wondered if his worried mind had imagined the phone call, if Fred was in the lab, as healthy as ever…

…until he saw her, lying crumpled on the floor beside the bed, her head resting against the bedside table. Fred's eyes were open and blank, staring at nothing. She wasn't moving.

"Fred?" Wesley hardly dared to whisper as he approached her body. "Fred, it's me…are you there? Can you hear me?"

Cautiously he knelt by her, putting one hand out to feel the pulse on her neck, but before his fingers could touch her skin Fred's hand shot out without warning and grasped Wesley's neck, her eyes finally focusing on him, wild and frightened.

"It is here," she whispered in a voice not quite her own. "The Stealer will take it all, and leave nothing of the girl. No stopping it, none at all."

"Fred…" although he tried to keep calm, Wesley felt tears of fear and grief begin to well up in his throat.

Fred's eyes suddenly changed, became normal, desperate. "Oh, god, Wesley, bring me back. I can't fight her," she whispered, and her hand released his neck and fell by her side.

There was a brief moment of complete silence, and then Fred began to shake, banging her head against the bedside table with each wild convulsion, drawling blood that stained the bright wood a sinister red. Wesley felt his tears begin to fall as he helplessly watched Fred tremble, sickened with déjà vu, remembering the night that she had died in this very room.

Suddenly Fred went very still, her eyes clouded over and milky. As Wes watched in horror, a tiny spark of blue appeared on Fred's forehead and spread over her skin in an instant, tingeing her hair and colouring her eyes a familiar icy blue.

"Oh dear god," Wesley whispered, barely daring to move as Fred's skin steadily hardened into red-brown armour. "No. No, no, oh god, no…"

The blue eyes abruptly flickered into focus and cast their gaze on Wes, who felt a cold shudder run through his veins.

"Hello Wesley," she said, her voice hauntingly and horribly familiar.

"Illyria," he whispered. "No. It can't be."

But it was.

She looked exactly as he remembered her, the same hair and skin and demeanour and voice, but there was something different in her eyes now, something almost human.

It was this part that erupted rage in Wesley's blood.

He tensed and moved quickly, ready to kill the ancient goddess, but she put out her hand and stopped him, palm resting on his chest, meeting his eyes as the old Illyria never had.

"Wesley, stop," she commanded softly, her voice quiet but still so powerful. Something was different about her, not physically apparent but still quite clear.

"Where is she?" Wes whispered, his voice low and quiet and deadly, his heart breaking inside his chest. "Where the hell is she, Illyria? What have you done with Fred?"

Illyria sighed silently. "She is still alive, but won't be for long."

"Because of you," Wesley snarled, turning away from her, starting to pace the bedroom in a daze. "She killed you, months ago, and we ended it there. You should be dead."

Illyria tilted her head to the side. "She's getting worse, isn't she? Fred. She's sick, but you do not know why."

Wes stopped short. "What did you say?"

Illyria's eyes never left him. "Fred is dying, Wesley. Her soul is disintegrating. If it continues, she will suffer a fate worse than any sort of death," she looked away for the first time, examining her hand, curling the fingers in. "You are powerless to stop this on your own; no mortal can challenge the Soul Stealer alone."

Wesley felt like tearing out his hair. "Why are you telling me this, Illyria?" he asked, trying not to cry. "Why not just let it happen? I'm sure that will clear the way for you to take over Fred's body again. Isn't that what you want?"

Illyria shook her head, her face serious. "You misunderstand, Wesley," she said. "You need to save Fred. I want to help."


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: I am SO sorry that this took so long!! I got a terrible bout of writer's block, and everyone knows how hard those are…aw, hell, what am I doing making excuses? All I can say is that I'm sorry, and that I hope it doesn't happen again.

This chapter is dedicated to Tracey for her amazing vids, because they keep me so well ingrained in the characters of Fred and Wes, and keep the emotions up. Thanks, Tracey, for snapping me out of my block.

By the way, I've decided to change the rating of this story to R, for implied sex and violence—nothing big, but I want to be safe. I hope everyone's okay with it.

* * *

Chapter Three 

_I want to help._

Wes felt his sense of balance fail him and he sat on the bed, resting his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I must not have heard you correctly, Illyria," he said softly.

"Then I shall repeat my words: I want to help. Fred must be saved; this is the only way."

Wesley turned the idea over in his mind, trying to grasp it as reality, but then, after a moment, he began to laugh sadly. "Oh, wait. I understand. Well played, Illyria. Well played." He applauded softly, and Illyria stood over him, arms folded across her chest.

"You think this is a game," she said, vexation plain in her tone. "You think I am playing with you."

He looked up to meet her cold blue eyes. "You're not?"

"Fred is dying," Illyria whispered icily. "I don't know why you refuse to understand this."

Wesley felt fire rush back to his veins at the mention of Fred, and he stood up to face the ancient goddess squarely. "I do understand," he said. "I understand that you're trying to come back, and I know how to stop you.

Illyria's eyes narrowed into a glare. "The Kei-An incantation will fail you," she said, ignoring Wes' shocked look. "It is what caused this in the first place. Go and research it yourself in your large blank volumes; you will see."

Wesley stared into Illyria's eyes for several minutes, taking in all that she had said and thinking. Finally, he sighed.

"Fine," he whispered. "Explain what you want, and then you're going to bring Fred back and never return."

The look in Illyria's eyes was grim. "You will change your mind. About this I am not wrong."

"We shall see," Wes replied coldly, and sat on the bed again, waiting. After a moment, Illyria spoke.

"The Soul Stealer has come to take what it is due, as it should. When Fred was imprisoned inside her soul, the Stealer was taking her slowly, bit by bit. Now it is going to seize her soul while she is still alive," Illyria said. "Eventually her mind will break down as well as her body, and when the Soul Stealer takes it all Fred will be alive, but living without a spirit. A shell emptier than I could possibly make it. It must be stopped, and I am offering my assistance in the matter. Unless you want this human you love to die."

Wesley's gaze was drawn suddenly to the wooden bedside table, to the lower shelf where the rim was coated in still-wet blood. An onslaught of memories suddenly hit him, memories of holding Fred while she died violently in his arms. Died because of Illyria.

Illyria had killed Fred twice already; who was to say she wasn't trying for the third charm?

"Never," Wes whispered. "I would never give in to your lies, Illyria. Any help you give will only result in your gain, even if it means killing Fred. Especially if it means killing Fred. I want—"

He stopped short as he noticed that Illyria had visibly stiffened. She put out her hand against his chest again, resting against him, suddenly weak; Wes met her eyes to see them filled with terror. "She…" Illyria croaked, her voice tight. "I…she comes…she fights!" Her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed onto Wesley's chest, limp. As he watched, Illyria's features slowly changed back into their more natural form, blue hair to brown, armour to regular clothing and skin, goddess to human, and the instant the change was complete Fred's eyes opened wide and she gasped, her gaze finding Wesley's.

"I did it, didn't I?" she asked in a whisper. "I fought her off, right?"

Before Wes could reply, she was asleep.

----

Fred awoke later in the dark, snug beneath her flannel coverlet. The back of her head was one big, bloody bruise, but her mind was clear for the first time in several days.

Turning her head, Fred smiled as she saw Wesley lying beside her on the top of the covers, sleeping lightly, always protecting her. She reached her hand up and touched his cheek, running her fingers over his handsome face, tracing every line even though Fred already knew them by heart.

Wes opened his eyes and returned her smile, reaching over to drape his hand across Fred's waist. "Hey," he whispered. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Fred replied. "I feel much better. I suppose I just had to sleep all that flu away. What time is it?"

Wes shifted to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, and then turned back to her. "Just after midnight."

Fred nodded. "So I slept for about six hours. That should have—what?" she'd noticed Wesley's odd look.

"Don't you remember anything?" he asked softly. Fred shrugged.

"I remember having lunch with Lorne, and then coming up here to sleep. I had the strangest dream that I called you in a panic and that I hit my head," she felt the back of her head and winced. "I guess I actually did hurt myself on the headboard while I was sleeping. You do strange things in your sleep, when you're sick."

Wes nodded, sighing. "You certainly do," he murmured, tracing his fingers across Fred's cheek. "I'm sure everyone does."

There was a pause, and then she sighed. "What's the matter, Wesley?" Fred whispered. "What's wrong?"

Wesley shook his head. "Nothing," he replied. "I was just worried."

"Don't be, okay? I'm fine."

"You're perfect," Wes corrected, leaning over to kiss Fred softly, his hand sliding up to the back of her neck. Fred sighed silently into the kiss as it became more and more passionate, surrendering her sleepy thoughts into the darkness, and when Wesley's hands began to roam over her body she did not protest. She had been cold for far too long.

----

Fred's nightmares returned as they did almost every night, except this time there was no vision of the horrible Illyria-monster that seemed to be haunting her; in this dream, the demon that was killing her presented itself in its real form. The Soul Stealer.

Fred saw it as a void of darkness, swirling like a wormhole, trying to suck her into its clutches. She stood at the edge of a cliff, her body bloody and torn, weighted down by chains attached to her ankles and wrists and neck. The hole was laughing softly.

"Little Fred," it whispered. "Come. Step up and see what your lover has sentenced you to. Come and see your fate."

Fred protested and fought with every fibre of her being, but somehow she ended up at the very edge of the cliff, looking over into a fiery pit of hell, the sound of human screams deafening. As she watched in horror, Fred never saw the dark, strange shadow separate itself from the demon and sneak up behind her; in fact, she wasn't even aware of it until a hand shot out and pushed her squarely, shoving her off balance. Fred teetered for a dizzying second and then plunged headfirst into the pit, the flames licking her skin, the millions of stolen souls reaching out to grab her.

And when she hit the bottom with a painful, searing crash, Fred opened her eyes very suddenly; she had a few seconds to recognize the carpet of the main lobby of Wolfram and Hart and to taste her own blood in her mouth, and then her eyes were overcome with bright red stars that blotted out her vision and numbed the pain until she couldn't feel anything.

----

Wesley felt Fred rise from the bed, and he pulled himself out of half-sleep and sat up in the darkness to see her walking slowly, rhythmically…sleepwalking. Nightmare-walking, if he knew Fred's nights.

Wes threw back the covers, shivering as the cold air hit his bare chest, and followed behind Fred as she exited the apartment and began to descend the stairs down to the main offices of Wolfram and Hart. Fred never once tripped on anything, but walked as if she were being dragged down by chains, a slow, painful walk that Wesley forced himself to match as he followed several feet behind her. He knew better than to wake Fred; his aunt used to sleepwalk, and Wes knew that sleepwalkers liked to lash out if anyone trailed too close or tried to wake them up. So he just followed, silent, watching.

Fred walked out onto the balcony of the darkened lobby area of Wolfram and Hart, stopping at the section of the railing that was being repaired from the latest fiasco—the section of balcony that still had a gaping hole in it. Fred stepped to the edge and looked down, her closed eyes fixed on something interesting on the carpet.

Wes froze. "No," his shout came out as a strangled, terrified whisper as Fred lurched forward suddenly, as if pushed, and fell headfirst onto the main floor of the lobby, hitting the floor with a loud, final-sounding _thump_.

Wesley's muscles sprang back into action and he ran as fast as he could down the black slate stairs to where Fred lay crumpled. Kneeling and pulling her into his arms, Wes blanched when he saw the thin ribbon of blood trickling from the corner of Fred's mouth.

"Oh, god, no," he whispered, trying to choke back tears of panic. "Please, please, Fred, wake up…"

Her eyes shot open, a familiar blue colour instead of their normal warm brown. "Do you believe me now?" Illyria asked from Fred's bloody lips, glaring before falling limp again. Wes clutched Fred's body to his chest.

"Medical!" he yelled. "Someone! Anyone! Help!"

So caught up in panic and terror as he was, Wesley did not see the broad form that had been watching them retreat into the shadows to contemplate and plot the next move to be made.

----

"Mr. Wyndam-Price."

He sat on a cold bench outside of the medical office, arms folded over his chest, waiting. At some point someone had handed him a sweatshirt, which he'd mindlessly put on, but he didn't remember much. His mind was filled with terrible possibilities.

"Um, Mr. Wyndam-Price?"

_Brain damage? No, not with a fall like that, I don't think. There was no time for any blood or oxygen to stop going to her head. But what about her neck? She landed right on it—_

"Mr. Wyndam-Price."

_Oh, god, what if something punctured her lungs? Fred's already dying; physical danger to her life is too much. What if she doesn't make it?_

"MR. WYNDAM-PRICE!"

He jerked away from his thoughts and turned to see a medical worker standing beside him. "What?"

The man sighed. "She's stable, now. She's got a concussion and mild bruising in her ribcage, but should be fine."

Wesley nodded blankly. "Thank you." _How can they say that? She's dying! Can't they see it?_ With a sigh, Wes stood up, walked into the medical room and shut the door behind him. He tried to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, but when sudden worry enveloped him Wesley turned on the light, just to be sure that he could see Fred's chest rising and falling with each breath.

"Fred?" Wes whispered, sitting next to the bed and enclosing Fred's hand in his own. "Are you there? Please wake up."

To his utter surprise, Fred began to stir, turning her head side to side, mumbling something incoherent. After a few moments, her eyes opened and found his, strange and vacant.

"Fred…thank god," Wesley said softly, reaching forward to touch her cheek. "I thought I lost you."

Fred continued to stare at him blankly. "What the hell do you want with me?" she whispered, the malice in her voice striking Wes like a thunderbolt. "Get away. Get away from me."

Wesley fought to swallow his panic. _Oh, god, it's happening,_ he realized. _Just as Illyria said it would._

"Stop it!" Fred cried, flinching away from his touch. "You're hurting me! You—"

"—I'm not doing anything," Wes tried to calm her down, but Fred began to shake.

"Help! They'll kill me!" she gripped Wesley's arm, vicelike, and suddenly the look in her eyes changed back to normal and Fred began to cry. "Oh dear god, they'll burn me alive…"

Wesley forced himself to return the gaze, looking deep inside Fred's eyes for a tiny spark of blue that he knew would be there. "Illyria," he said softly, his tone strong. "Illyria, come back. You have made your point, and I am willing to negotiate if you let Fred go."

The change was peaceful this time, almost graceful, not violent by any stretch; Fred's body didn't even move, and her hand continued to hold Wesley's arm as her hair, eyes and skin changed into those of the ancient goddess. When the transformation was done, Illyria sat back and folded her arms across her chest; Wes looked at his forearm and saw a mark in the shape of a hand where Fred had been holding him. He sighed.

"Did you have to go through all of that to prove it to me?"

Illyria scowled. "I am unable to control what Fred does with this body," she replied. "Her mind is dying now, and the Soul Stealer's reach is penetrating deeper. Your invisible characteristics that make up your demeanour—"

"—Personality," Wesley automatically corrected, always the teacher to her, and Illyria nodded.

"Personality," she repeated. "It shall die, too, in due time. When the Soul Stealer takes Fred, you will not know who she is."

Wes sighed again, deeper this time. "So, you want to help me defeat this Soul Stealer," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"No. I am not doing this for you, nor for Winifred."

"So why are you doing it?"

Illyria paused for a moment, her eyes meeting his, the animal inquisitiveness in them fading to something almost human. "When Fred killed me, your gods forced me to protect her soul. I am a prisoner of it, of her, as I was never meant to be. When the Soul Stealer comes, it will take us both."

"So this is all just a way to save yourself?" Wesley asked, not surprised. Illyria was one of the most self-obsessed beings he had ever known.

"There is one more condition to be met, if I am to help you."

Wes' eyebrow rose, but he remained silent.

Illyria sighed. "I want a body of my own," she said, looking down at her limbs, flexing her fingers. "I do not wish to be a prisoner of infant gods that were born millions of years after my death. It sickens me."

Wesley closed his eyes and tried to imagine a world with a full-fledged Illyria roaming in it. At first he wanted to refuse, but then he thought again.

_I sacrificed Fred for thousands of people the first time Illyria awoke,_ Wes realized. _I want to be selfish for once. We can handle Illyria once Fred is healthy._

"How do I know I can trust you?" he wanted to know. Illyria glared.

"If I do not do this, I shall be a slave to the Soul Stealer," she said. "Even when this world ends, the Soul Stealer will keeps its victims to do its bidding for all of time, even when time itself dies."

"Fair enough," Wes could understand the devastation that slavery would have on Illyria's ego. "I suppose we can enter into some sort of truce—"

"—I require nothing but a body of my own," she cut in. "All debts shall be paid if you obtain a suitable shell; this form and appearance has grown on me, like a leech, and I cannot rid myself of it; I want it to be mine alone."

Wes nodded. "Fine, Illyria. I agree to let you help."

There was a long pause, and Illyria began to pace, annoyed. "I tire of waiting, Wesley."

Suddenly Wesley's emotions, numbed and bottled up since Illyria's arrival, overcame him in a rushing flood and literally knocked him off his feet. He collapsed onto the bed with a sigh, holding his head in his hands.

_Oh, god._

Flashes of Fred dying in his arms came rushing back, memories that were burned into his skin like brands. Wesley relived her death a million times in a single second, and then the images of just a few minutes ago came, too, of Fred's fall and her frightening behaviour just moments before, the beginning of her long descent into mindlessness.

_I held her when she was dying, _Wes remembered. _I felt her memory fail the first time, watched her lapse into insanity. And now her personality is disintegrating, and her mind, that brilliant mind, is rotting in her skull…and through it all there's nothing—_

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he looked up and realized that Illyria was standing beside him, looking almost human, and very uncharacteristic.

"You are emitting water," she said bluntly, and Wes wiped away the tears on his face. "You are mourning over things long gone, or only possibly yet to come, but yet there is no reason for it. You should not be doing this."

Wesley just looked at her blankly, until suddenly he understood: Illyria was trying to comfort him.

_Uncharacteristic? Understatement of the era._

He forced a smile. "I never taught you how much I love Fred," he said softly, looking up to meet Illyria's eyes; for some reason, they didn't look so cold.

Illyria didn't smile, but the look in her eyes revealed her emotion. "You had no need to teach me that," she replied. "Fred has taught me much on this subject, unconsciously. This love she has for you…it is more powerful than your gods, or the gods of my ancestors; it is nearly on parallel to the force of the universe itself. It controls everything. It's bigger than anything."

Wesley nodded. "That's how I feel about her, Illyria. I have watched her die twice; once alone was too much, and now…this will tear me apart. I don't know if I can risk failing."

"We shall not fail," Illyria said. "I give my word as Illyria, God-King of All Worlds."

This time Wes' smile was real through his tears. "I don't know what Fred did to you in that soul of hers," he said. "But I dare say that you are almost human."

She scoffed. "I am not human; I am far greater than that."

"Of course," Wesley agreed. "Of course."

----

The shadow paced back and forth, annoyed beyond reason. An old, shrivelled man sat in a chair, cradling a small crystal tumbler of amber whiskey lovingly and looking on with an amused look on his wizened face as Shadow tried to wear a hole in the carpet. Huddled on the floor in the corner, the girl prisoner watched with tear-filled, feverish eyes as she tried to make herself appear as small as possible. The smell of her blood was coppery in the air.

"I don't understand it," Shadow said suddenly, startling the old man and almost causing him to spill his drink. "The fall was supposed to kill Fred. She landed on her neck, for god's sake! She should be a goddamned quadriplegic by now!"

The old man sighed. "Illyria's presence makes her stronger, obviously. The Old One cannot stop me, but she can slow the process."

Shadow's hands clenched into frustrated fists. "I tire of this position, Master. I want to act, now, and destroy them all. I had them here," he held out his open palm, and then snapped it shut back into a fist. "Eating out of my hand. It almost worked, and now Illyria is in control of the body and we have no other chance."

The old man shifted a little and took a sip of his drink, a smile blossoming on his face as he gazed through the gold liquid. "There is nothing in this world quite like a bit of fine whiskey," he said tenderly, before focusing his eyes on the shadow. "Patience, Hamilton. Patience is a virtue the humans are taught, don't you remember? Wait, and watch."

The shadow's gaze strayed to the girl bound on the floor, and he smiled. "I suppose I can linger here a little longer," he said. "In the mean time, however, I plan to have more fun with this one." The girl screamed as Hamilton neared her, trying to huddle further into the corner.

The old man held up his glass in a silent toast and then drained the remaining whiskey. "Good man."

* * *

A/N: I know that Illyria might seem out of character, and I want to tell everyone my intentions before I get blasted for writing her incorrectly. I have wanted to use Illyria as a good guy for a long time, and this is my chance. Illyria's mannerisms haven't changed, nor her speech or her pride or her ego—so, technically, I am writing her in character, just with a few twists to her intentions. Illyria's odd behaviour does indeed have a reason and a motive, which will be revealed in later chapters; I never do anything without a cause. 


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Just so nobody gets confused, Hamilton is Shadow—they're the same person, Shadow is his code name, or whatever. Understand it? Good.

Again, I'm terribly sorry about the lateness of updates—I have an increasingly busy schedule, and that results in writer's block. I'm trying as hard as I can.

* * *

Chapter Four

_Illyria._

Wesley's voice, strong and forcefully calm, resonating through Fred's mind as a memory as she curled up into a tiny ball, trying to get warm.

_Illyria, come back._

She couldn't believe it when she'd first heard the words come from his lips, and still refused to believe it now. Illyria was dead; Wesley was out of his mind.

_You have made your point, and I am willing to negotiate if you let Fred go._

Illyria couldn't make a point—she couldn't do anything. Fred had killed her months ago; she alone was in control of her own body. She was still paranoid, yes, but logic dictated that the dead stayed dead, especially when it was the dead's soul that was slain, not just the body. Illyria had to be gone; all Fred had to do to prove it was to wake up from this very strange dream and feel Wesley's arms around her, his warm body between the sheets, his soft skin.

Unconsciously Fred felt around the bed, trying to find him, but by all appearances she was utterly alone. Her eyes flew open and she saw the one thing she dreaded to see: she was in the loft bedroom of her soul's house, the air frosty around her. Alone.

"No!" her voice emerged as a mere whisper, as if the still air was unable—or unwilling—to receive her shriek. Fred threw back the covers and tiptoed like a ghost across the room to the antique vanity, silently interrogating the mirror, watching her own sunken reflection, her pale skin and shadowed eyes and the tears that began to roll down her cheeks. Wesley had called Illyria into the body, trapping Fred in the soul's house, and the physicist had no idea why; for this she cried. For Wesley and his love, she cried. Fred stood in front of the vanity and cried into the silence, the tears warming her face.

Suddenly rage boiled beneath her skin; her arms moved, and Fred swept her hands sideways across the surface of the vanity, swiftly clearing away the singing jewellery boxes and scattered gems in one violent shove that sent them all crashing to the floor, the broken shards glittering as her scream of helplessness and fury rang in the air. Fred sank against the polished wood, a sob forcing its way out of her throat, and she buried her face in her hands and sat among the slivers of glass and porcelain and cried for herself._ I don't understand…why? Oh, god, why have I been taken from him again? Why?_

She had survived five years in hell; she had been ripped away from her soul mate twice and had killed an ancient demon god. All manner of strange things had happened to her, but at the moment, Fred Burkle had never felt as lost as she did now.

----

The girl-prisoner awoke very slowly, hardly daring to uncurl her body to check if the men were still there. The rusty chains on her wrists chimed as she unclenched her blood-drenched fists. Her blond hair was knotted and tangled, soaked in sweat.

Again. Again and again and again she was awakening to taste her own blood in her mouth and listen to the ever-present invisible voices in her mind as her wounds got rubbed in the dirt of her cell and laced through with infections. Every day, weaker and weaker, but she could never die.

The girl sighed into her tears and closed her eyes again. She remembered a time, so far away now that it was almost a dream, when she lived free and her wrists were not tied down. The details of this life were fuzzy and blurred around the edges, and every time the girl searched for them she found them farther and farther away from the reaches of her thoughts.

Before she could find them, though, the voices took over her mind, whispering—

_Betrayer._

_He has betrayed us._

_Deserter—_

_Called on the demon._

_TRAITOR!_

—echoing in a rising crescendo until the girl's hands flew to her ears and she bit the inside of her cheek to silence a scream, drawing copper-tasting blood that soured her tongue but kept the girl from crying out.

No matter what, she must not cry out.

----

"You know, you don't have to just stand around. You could help me."

Illyria shot a scowl towards Wesley, who was sitting behind his desk, looking through his books. She began to pace again, folding her arms.

"I will not reduce myself to slogging around in the muck of chaos to search for information," she said proudly. "I have no need for research; I know all."

Wes sighed. "You might, but I don't," he muttered under his breath. It was just past nine in the morning, an overcast and cloudy day; Wesley had showered and dressed properly without breaking down again, and had managed to get Illyria to stay in his office without anyone seeing her. He was trying to put his little meltdown out of his mind, but couldn't blame himself for it; at least now that he'd gotten past it, Wesley was able to work very calmly—strangely calmly, considering the conditions of his research. Illyria was very much like a gunshot and morphine at the same time; she was more painful than he could have ever imagined, but yet she was also a numbing agent, forcing Wes into absurd normality around her. He knew that Illyria was cunning, egotistic and very powerful, but she wasn't evil by nature; Wesley trusted her to keep Fred safe, even if it really was all just for Illyria's gain.

A knock on his door jarred him from his thoughts, and he looked up and met Illyria's annoyed eyes.

"It has been making noise for several minutes," she said. "I should rip its head from its body for the insolence it shows."

Gunn's voice, muffled by the door, came to Wes' ears. "Hey, English, are you in there? I want to talk to you."

Wesley sighed, crossing the room and reaching for the deadbolt. "'It' happens to be Gunn out there, and I'd greatly appreciate if he kept his head," he replied. "And stay here, all right? I don't want anyone seeing you until the opportune moment."

And with that Wes walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him but not locking it. He knew that keeping Illyria under wraps was pushing her patience; if she thought she was a captive, only god knew what would happen.

----

"Gunn? What can I do for you?" Wesley asked, standing outside the office. Gunn forced a very fake smile.

"Not too much. I just wanted to congratulate you on the completion of the Davidson project. It took a lot of guts, but you did it really well."

Wes' brow furrowed. "But Charles, I didn't—"

"—and no hard feelings about you taking the case, right?" Gunn cut him off sharply, throwing Wesley a look that was hard to interpret. "I mean, I looked over the work that you did, and I couldn't possibly have done it the way you did. Congratulations." Gunn stuck out his right hand towards Wes.

There was an awkward pause as Wesley stared at his friend's outstretched palm. Suddenly he understood and nodded, grasping Gunn's hand warmly and smiling.

"Thanks. I think all that hard work paid off," he said, and felt a piece of paper slide, invisible to anything that might have been watching, from Gunn's palm into his own. "Good to know someone cares."

"Of course, English," Gunn replied, visibly relieved that Wes had finally understood. "Anyhow, I gotta be going, but see you around, all right?"

"Right," Wesley replied, and headed back into his office. Shutting the door behind him, Wes opened and read the note that Gunn had passed to him.

_Wes—I'm sorry to have to communicate with you in this way, but you know that we're always being watched, and this matter is of utmost importance that must be kept a secret. The White Room isn't working; the Senior Partners are going nuts, screaming like banshees, and for no reason. Two people have died trying to go in there, and I can't risk any more. Nobody knows what would cause the Senior Partners such anger, but I have a pretty good idea; I think that they're detecting a major presence of the Powers That Be, bigger than Cordelia ever was. I don't know where the PTB's presence is coming from, but I do know that it's worrying me. The Senior Partners are evil; we can't ever forget that. The Powers are the forces of good; what if they're finally reprimanding us for joining the evil side?_

Wes read the letter twice, and then silently conjured a fire spell in his hand and burned the paper until it was nothing but a pile of ashes in his palm. As he threw the ash away, Wesley saw Illyria standing, arms folded, watching him, and he was suddenly hit with an alarming memory.

When Fred killed me, your gods forced me to protect her soul.

That's what Illyria had said. Your gods. The Powers That Be.

_She must be the presence,_ Wes realized. _The Powers must have put something in her during her imprisonment in Fred's soul, something that's showing red alerts on the radar of the Senior Partners._

He looked up to meet Illyria's eyes, and she glared.

"You look at me as if I am some sort of leech," she challenged crossly. "You are impertinent, Wesley. Why do you dare to degrade me so?"

Wes shook his head, breaking the gaze, knowing that Illyria would never back down. "Nothing," he replied weakly. "It's just…nothing. I was—Illyria?"

Illyria was staring past him, her eyes milky. She had put up her hand, stopping something that wasn't there; her body was frozen, tensed and ready for anything.

"Illyria? What's going…" Wesley trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. Deep inside his heart he felt something spark and grow, spreading through him like crystal formations of ice.

Illyria turned towards him, her vacant eyes the colour of an overcast sky. A single tear that did not belong to her trailed its way down a blue-tinged cheek.

"Betrayer," Illyria whispered in a stranger's voice, and suddenly she wasn't there. In her place stood three women: Lilah, Fred, and a young woman that Wesley did not recognize, a girl with blond hair and blue eyes and blood staining her skin. Their faces were stormy with rage.

"Fred—"

"Betrayer," The three spoke together, their voices haunting and hollow and dead, cutting Wes off. "You have deceived us. You will kill us. Betrayer."

Wesley took four or five very small steps towards the three women until he stood squarely in front of Fred. His hand moved to touch her cheek, but her skin burned him, forcing Wes to pull away, gasping softly in pain. Fred, never once showing any emotion, raised her own hand and slapped him across the face, a blow that stung Wesley's skin and sent an icy shock through his blood.

"You have betrayed me," her voice was an icy, unnatural whisper that Wesley would never forget. "You are a traitor of the soul, and the soul shall take what you hold most dear as a result." For a moment Illyria's image shone through Fred's body, like a glimmer on water; Fred stepped back into line with the other two women, and then Wesley's attention was drawn to the third, unidentified girl as she spoke in a voice worn down by screams.

"My traitor," she whispered, and suddenly, inexplicably, she turned into Illyria.

The image faded, the three women disappeared, and suddenly it was just Wesley and Illyria alone again in the office, trying not to exchange equally shocked stares. Wes' cheek still stung from Fred's blow, and when he looked in the mirror he saw a mark in the faint shape of a hand that flared red and then faded.

_Fred,_ Wes allowed himself a brief moment of thought for her. _But I haven't betrayed you…I'm trying to help. I'm trying to help you._

And then the lights above his head exploded, forcing all other thoughts out of the way as the room darkened, illuminated only by the cloudy daylight from the windows. As Wesley watched the broken glass from the lights shower the room like snow, he thought he heard a voice screeching with fury from the depths of Hell, a voice that was every horrible thing in the world combined into one sound—the true voice of the Senior Partners:

_My traitor._

_----_

In his office, Hamilton saw the power go out and clenched his fists in frustration as his computer winked out and the presence of the Senior Partners rushed through his veins like a shot of caffeine. That damned girl—she was going to lose him his job, and for what? Just to accomplish his mission.

_That old man had better pay a good price,_ he thought. _I'm putting everything on the line for this, and I'd better get double in return._

With a sigh, Hamilton rose from his desk and trotted off to see what he could do to calm the Senior Partners down and keep his façade intact.

----

Inside her cell, the prisoner shrieked when the lights suddenly shattered, plunging her into the darkness. She dragged her body into a corner, curling herself into a tiny ball, crying with fear.

"Oh, god, don't leave me alone with them," she sobbed as the voices descended. "Don't leave me in the dark. Please. Please…"

The voices of the Powers That Be began to resonate in her mind again, and the girl's crying increased. Their message was clear: _We are very displeased._

The girl screamed again, covering her eyes with her hands, a desperate attempt to silence them. "Stop it!" she screamed. "I didn't do anything! I didn't do anythin! I just want to go home!"

----

Deep inside her soul's house, Fred raised her head from her arms as a disconnected scream rang and echoed faintly through the air. _I just want to go home!_

Fred sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, suppressing an absurd smile.

_So do I, _she thought, wiggling her toes to warm them up. _More than anyone knows._


	5. Chapter Five

A/N: Good grief, this chapter was difficult to write. Fun once it got started properly, but hard; I think it gets the award for Most Rewrites Required.

Chapter Five

When the lights first went out, Wesley hardly noticed it; he was still reeling from his vision. He looked up and caught Illyria's glittering eyes in the half-darkness, seeing his shock reflected in her gaze.

"Did you see that?" Wes asked, breathless. "Those three women. Fred, and Lilah, and the girl with blonde hair."

Illyria's face was hard to discern in the dark, but she was frozen, listening, head cocked slightly with one ear facing the ground. She put up one hand for silence, and Wesley obeyed, curious.

Illyria's eyes, glistening blue, suddenly blazed with anger and she stalked silently out of the office. Wes jumped up and followed her, hoping to all holy things that she wouldn't be seen as she stalked across the lobby.

His brow furrowed as he followed her across the reception area; something was very wrong. The walls seemed to be screaming faintly. The air smelt burnt; the carpet was darker than Wesley remembered it to be, but that could just be the lack of lights—

Wait—

It was just him and Illyria in the lobby, alone.

They weren't supposed to be alone.

Today was the Davidson case meeting. There were at least fifty royal D'Ordan Demons who had, a few seconds ago, been standing in the lobby.

And two Slurgan demons had been taking their coffee break at the stairs, to Wesley's left. Styrofoam cups lay overturned on the black slate steps.

The new secretary, a Marmond shape shifter demon named Misty, was missing, too.

The demons were all gone. Nothing left but a few sprinkles of ash here and there, thickening the carpet that still held the memory of Fred's blood.

Wesley felt sick. Whatever had caused the power blackout had also just killed every demon in the building.

_This cannot be good._

Overcome with dread, Wesley caught Illyria's arm and spun her around.

"Illyria, what's going on?" he asked in a whisper. Her eyes narrowed.

"He is there," she replied, her eyes shifting towards the elevator, and then she tore her arm from Wes' grip and continued to advance on the steel doors, walking so softly that her feet did not make a sound on the floor; Wesley followed behind, compelled to protect her even though Illyria was stronger than he was. He was worried.

_What could possibly be in a lift that Illyria would be hunting?_

—

Hamilton paced the short distance from one side of the elevator to the other. He had punched in the numbered code to gain access to the White Room, and the button was visible at the top of the elevator's panel, but Hamilton didn't dare to push it. He was fully aware of the anger of the Senior Partners; he could feel it, like razors being scraped across his bones.

_We hate it!_ the voices cried. _Get it out get it out! We don't want it here!_

Hamilton rolled his eyes. Oh, god, there they went again. The Senior Partners were so traumatized that they couldn't do much other than babble mindlessly the same things over and over, all echoing in Hamilton's head. That girl he was keeping in the basement was more powerful than he'd first anticipated.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied for the fifth—no, wait, sixth—time, knowing exactly what was coming next:

_You do! You brought it here, and we don't want it! Get it out!_

Honestly. They were like children sometimes, so simplistic in their demands. Backward. It made Hamilton sick.

"I'm sorry, but there is nothing here," he said smoothly. This next part was his favourite bit of the conversation, and he had to hide the pleasure in his voice as he spoke again. "Can you tell me what it is you want taken away from here?"

Agonized screams for a few seconds, and then…silence. Hamilton grinned at the thought that he was actually upsetting the Senior Partners, shocking them into tormented silence for another few minutes before they began up again. It was almost a game for him.

Hamilton stopped pacing, waiting for the Senior Partners to begin again, but this time the itch in his mind said something else: _Don't open the door! She's on the other side!_

"What?"

But before he could question further, the doors to the elevator began to slide open and Hamilton saw who was standing there—and, without blinking an eye, unleashed the most deadly spell he could think of. He was smiling as the door closed again.

_Well, she's not on the other side anymore._

—

Illyria reached the lift and stopped, puzzled; Wesley quickly folded himself into the shadowy recess of the other elevator's doors, unsure of Illyria's actions.

"How do you gain access to this room?" she asked, an order, and Wes obeyed by silently pushing the correct button. What happened next occurred in less than two seconds, so fast that Wesley could hardly see it:

The metal doors slid open smoothly with a small ding sound.

Illyria's face contorted into a mask of fury and shock.

There was a flash of brilliant white lightning.

Illyria was blown across the room, smashing into the opposite wall and crumpling to the carpet.

The elevator doors closed.

—

Wesley stumbled back, blinded, and through his closed eyes he felt a familiar light surrounding him; sure enough, when he looked, Wes saw Lilah, Fred, and the young unknown girl, furious, standing before him. Again, Wesley heard their deadened voices:

"There is one who has betrayed us. We shall have our vengeance."

Wesley's eyes widened. "What are you?" he asked softly. Lilah folded her arms across her chest.

"We're exactly what you see," she replied. "We are three loves, three jailers, three opposites from one another."

"What do you mean?"

The bloodstained girl—the one that had turned into Illyria the last time that Wes had seen the vision—stepped forward and put her hand on Wesley's shoulder; it felt like nothing at all. She smiled.

"Call from the basement," she whispered, and kissed Wes' cheek, her blonde hair tickling his face like the ghost of a breeze, and then Wesley was alone again, facing Illyria's crumpled body and the shadowy evil that lurked within the walls and had enough strength to nearly kill her.

—

Deep inside her soul, Fred raised her head as the floor began to tremble. The entire house was shaking; as she watched, objects fell off shelves and others tipped over, smashing on the floor. Fred heard a slow creaking behind her, and she jumped out of the way just in time as the vanity tipped over and crashed to the floor where she had been sitting not moments before. The windows cracked; pictures jumped off the walls and separated from their frames.

And as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped. Fred sat frozen in the center of the room, surrounded by chaos, and for a full moment there was nothing but a lifting silence…

And then, with a booming crash that rattled Fred's bones, black stars exploded in front of her eyes and she was thrown back against the wall. Fred heard the voices echo in her mind, the voice of Illyria and of some strange sweet sound she could not identify:

"What do you want?" That was Illyria. Fred knew that voice very, very well.

_We are displeased. _Here was the voice she did not know, the sound that made her bones ring softly. The Powers That Be.

"You have no right. I have offered my assistance to Wesley, and he has accepted it. I have agreed to all terms, and he has agreed to mine."

_But you are doing nothing. You are deceiving him._

"Do you think I do this for Fred, or for Wesley? You are all ignorant fools; Fred can die, and I shall not mourn her. I imprisoned her in the Kei-An Box, trusting that Kei-An would do his duty as the Soul Stealer and take her away. It was interfered, and now there is a price to pay."

_Time is running out. You have a week, perhaps less, before the Soul Stealer takes you both._

"Then I shall do this for my own safety, nothing more. Do not try to play your games with me; I am far smarter than you believe."

_We shall see._

Then the voices were gone, and Fred was numb all over. All the pieces fit together now. The nightmares…the flu…falling off the balcony…less than a week?

DYING???

Fred began to shake. _No. No, I can't be dying, I just can't. Wesley and I…we're…happy. We're happy. I'm supposed to live a long life with him._

With a final defiant scream, Fred buried her face in her hands and began to cry. She had been faced with the absolute truth of her situation…and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball that was tiny enough to roll through the cracks in her life and fall back into peaceful oblivion.

—

Wesley gently laid Illyria on his bed, rushing to shut and lock the door before anyone came to find him. He was still unsure of what had happened to her, and he wanted to find out—before his friends did. Calling Illyria back was worse than stealing Connor, and Wes knew it very well. He didn't want to be caught without being able to explain what he was doing—because this time, Angel and the others really would kill him.

_So I really am betraying Fred,_ he thought. _That's all I can do; I just betray her, again and again. She was right._

Illyria stirred on the bed. "Protector…" she whispered softly, her head jerking back and forth a little over the pillow. Wesley pulled up his desk chair and sat beside the ancient goddess, watching her with a wary eye. Whatever had been in that elevator—Wes had a nasty suspicion that it was the Senior Partners in some way or shape—had put Illyria under a very deep spell, one that refused to release her from its deceptive clutches. She moaned.

"Hannah…"

Wesley leaned forward, suddenly very interested. "Illyria?"

Illyria's eyes shot open, pale blue, unfocused. "Hannah," she whispered. "Call from the basement."

_Call from the basement? That's what the girl—_

Wesley's thoughts were very suddenly cut off as Illyria shrieked and gripped his arm like a vice, her blind eyes struggling to find something to see. Before he could control it, Wesley had fallen into the bright blue depths of Illyria's eyes, dropping out of reality and into something very different.

—

The girl in the basement huddled into her corner, shaking, trying to wipe the blood from eyes to no avail. The darkness was reaching out with crooked hands to grab and drag her down into the deeper depths of hell.

_I want to go home!_ This is what she had screamed in those first earth-shattering moments of darkness, but she no longer remembered what home was. There was no such thing. The girl had been chained in the cell forever; she had been born in the harsh glow of the single light bulb that hung above her reach at the very top of her jail. The Lady had always been her captor, and when she was gone the Men had taken over.

The girl had always been alone; she had no age. She had always been there.

_I have no name. _

—

The first thing he heard was the scream.

Wesley turned, trying to discern the source of the sound, but it was disembodied; it came from, everywhere, and from nowhere.

_"NO! NO! NO! I don't want to die!"_

Wes tried to cover his ears, but the sound seeped into his mind and echoed there, too. Fred's voice, wild and terrified and hysterical.

_Dear lord,_ Wesley realized in horror. _She knows. She knows._

He had no way of reaching out to comfort her, no way to explain what had happened, and Wes could almost sense the coldness that Fred constantly felt. He was her only source of warmth, her soul mate, and he had locked Fred away in a tiny little house where she would lose her mind trying to figure out why he had betrayed her.

_Betrayer._

Wesley closed his eyes, trying to find a way out of this strange place, and suddenly he felt a very familiar presence behind him. Wesley turned and, sure enough, Fred was standing behind him.

"Fred," Wes whispered, grabbing her hand. "I'm so sorry. I didn't tell you, and I'm sorry—"

"—find Hannah," Fred told Wesley. His brow furrowed.

"I beg your pardon?"

Fred tore her hand from his grasp and pushed him roughly, surprisingly strong. "Don't you listen to _anyone_? Call her from the basement! Find Hannah!"

_Call _her_ from the basement? This is new, _Wesley thought. He touched Fred's arm as she turned away from him.

"I…I'm sorry, Fred," Wes tried again. "Please forgive me."

Fred began to laugh as she faded away slowly. "This isn't Fred, you idiot," she replied softly. "She's not here; I just came to make sure you follow instructions. Find Hannah, and don't betray her. Then you will understand."

And then she was gone, and Wesley was back in his own body, still watching an Illyria who was still unconscious. Wes' brow furrowed, thinking.

"Call from the basement," he whispered to himself, leaving Illyria and locking the door behind him. "Call from the basement…hmm…"

With a steady determination that came from an unknown source in his heart, Wesley descended the stairs to the main part of Wolfram and Hart. He bypassed the offices and elevators, heading towards the staircase the lay hidden behind a door in the farthest corner of one of the hallways; the staircase that led to the vast cellar of Wolfram and Hart.

Pushing the door open, Wesley stood at the top of the stairs and peered into the complete darkness, trying to discern some sort of shape through the gloom. He did not want to go down into the basement without some sort of light, but Wes didn't intend to; he just needed to know.

"Hannah?" his voice came out as a whisper, and Wesley cleared his throat and spoke louder, his voice echoing in the empty shadows below. "Hannah?"

An earth-shattering scream pierced the darkness, piercing Wes in the heart like a knife. He staggered, coughing, and the taste of blood seeped into his mouth as the scream echoed in his mind until he lost his thoughts:

_"No! No! I have no name!"_


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

A/N: I apologize again and again for the lateness. For many reasons, writing got pushed aside a little. However, rest assured that I am back, in full force, and won't be this late again!

* * *

"Hannah?"

The prisoner shrieked, covering her ears, trying to block out the terrifying onslaught of new information flooding her brain. The lights…all the lights had gone out. Now, this…this word and sent her mind firing bells and alarms that the prisoner did not recognize. She didn't know why she was reacting so to this word, but something deep inside her could not stop screaming.

_Hannah…_

All around her.

_Hannah Hannah Hannah Hannah Hannah Hannah Hannah Han—_

The prisoner's lips clamped shut suddenly as a hand—her own—covered her mouth. The sound of screaming did not cease. She curled up, shaking, and felt her tears warming her face. She was silent. She did not know what else to do.

-----

"No! No! I have no name!"

Wesley felt his eyes cloud over as the shriek bounded around his head, becoming impossibly loud. He fell to his knees, blood filling his mouth from some unknown source.

Wesley's forehead hit the rough carpet and he closed his eyes, dizzy, as the scream from the basement raced through the halls of Wolfram and Hart. Wes, the proverbial Pandora, had unleashed a monster that only he could feel, and it was everywhere.

_Three loves._

_Three jailers._

_Three opposites from one another._

Wesley sighed, his eyes falling shut, and the screaming began to close in. He didn't recall losing consciousness, but the next thing Wesley heard shocked him into realizing it.

"Oh, for the love of god, Wesley, it's only in your head."

A voice. Familiar. It came from the depths of memory from so long ago.

Sunnydale.

Wesley turned and, sure enough, saw the figure of Rupert Giles emerging from the gloom of his mind.

"Giles? What are you doing here?"

"Wesley," Giles snapped. "You're an arrogant idiot, you know that?"

Wes had to keep his jaw from dropping. In the real world, he had been used to hearing such things from his father; however, although he and Giles had never been the best of friends, they had remained on relatively friendly terms.

"I haven't done anything—"

"—Precisely!" Giles cut in. "You have not done anything to help this girl of yours, even though you have been given the most valuable of clues. Your father would be ashamed of you."

"He already is, in case you have a tendency to miss the obvious."

Giles shook his head and continued to pace. "Roger always held respect for a good puzzle, Wesley, and you have been given a puzzle to solve, one that will make your task infinitely easier. Don't you remember? Three loves, three jailers, three opposites from one another?"

Wesley folded his arms, defensive. "I do remember, Giles," he replied. The older Watcher sighed.

"Have you retained none of your mythology lessons, Wesley? Don't you remember anything about the Norse gods?"

Wesley thought for a moment, and then he remembered. He felt like whacking himself upside the head.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "The Nords! The three goddesses that control Fate! One represents the past, one the present, one the future. Three women—men love them, and yet they imprison them forever. The past, present and future are all unique, and since they're all equally powerful they are seen as three-way opposites!"

Giles nodded. "Yes. And these three girls you've been seeing, they represent the Nords."

Wesley was already miles ahead. "Lilah is my past—I'm done with her, and she's fading. Fred is the present, and Hannah is the future—" Wes suddenly stopped, remembering the girl, how she turned so swiftly into Illyria in his visions. He looked up to meet Giles' eyes. "But…Illyria…"

Giles looked grim. "She is not just a fly that you can brush away, Wesley. She was never meant to leave you. Illyria is here to stay. She is part of your future."

Wesley went cold. "No. She can't. Fred and I…"

Giles was fading away, his image slowly becoming foggy. "Wesley, you must accept the truth. Illyria is staying in your world, and she may turn out to be an asset to your cause. She is not leaving you. I'm sorry."

He was gone, and Wes awoke. He was sprawled on the basement stairs, the taste of blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten his tongue.

The lights were flickering faintly, slowly coming back to full power, and Wesley was able to see into the basement. What he saw shocked him.

_Hannah._

-----

"Wes? Hey, English, are you in here?"

Gunn sighed into the mahogany door of Wes' apartment, and raised his fist to knock again. Wesley and Fred had both disappeared in the same day, and now the lights were out, the demons were gone, and three people had spontaneously dropped dead because the Senior Partners were extremely pissed off.

_I had better get paid overtime for this._

Gunn banged his fist on the door, irritated. He felt like he was going to jump out of his own skin. "Come on, Wesley. Please answer. Please."

Digging in his pocket, Gunn found his copy of the key to Wesley's apartment and sighed, pausing a moment before unlocking the room. He felt bad about breaking and entering, but the entire team was needed for this issue with the Senior Partners and the demons that were gone.

"Wes? Okay, English, I've given you enough warning. I'm coming in!" Gunn stepped into Wes' apartment and looked around; all of the doors but one—the door to the bedroom—were open, and the rooms obviously empty. Gunn went to the bedroom door, gripping the brass handle and turning it. "Wes? Wes, we need—"

Gunn stopped short as he opened the door and saw the figure lying on the bed. He felt the blood drain from his face. He didn't breathe. He couldn't.

"Oh, god." _Oh, god._

Illyria.

-----

The girl curled up in the cell was nothing like the girl in Wesley's visions. As thin as a concentration camp prisoner, Hannah's eyes were so dead that Wesley wondered for a moment if the girl was actually still alive. Her breaths were shallow, her skin was hanging off her bones, and her gaze held the quiet stiffness of extreme trauma that sent chills through Wes' blood. It was difficult to believe she was a human being.

Wesley felt his feet begin to move down the stairs, and he slowly approached the cell where Hannah sat on the floor. He knelt down to her level, looking through the bars, trying to catch the girl's gaze to no avail.

"Hannah?"

She looked up for the first time, but did not look directly at Wes; she stared beyond him, a small stream of spit dripping from the corner of her mouth. Wesley wondered how he could not have ever noticed Hannah's presence before; it was quite obvious that she had been tortured for a long time.

"I'm here to help you," Wesley murmured. Hannah's only response was to turn her head and go back to staring at the wall. Wes felt his heart break for her; trauma had penetrated the girl so deeply that it had forced aside all rational thought, destroying her mind—perhaps permanently.

_Why would anyone torture someone until they were reduced to this?_ Wesley wondered. _She's so young…why is she here?_

"She sees," a voice from behind him rang out clearly, and Hannah's eyes showed a fleeting look of terror before turning grey and lifeless again. Wes turned to see an old man standing in the corridor, dressed in an old green overcoat that was pockmarked with holes where moths had eaten it away.

"I beg your pardon?"

The old man took a step forward, his shadow beginning to block out the light. "She sees. They show her images, dreadful ones, all the time, every day. She can't even tell anyone, because she doesn't like to speak. Only mutterings here and there. Crazy since she was a little girl. Tried to cut out her own voice box, she did, slashed her throat in an attempt to die. Didn't succeed, obviously. Only five years old…silly girl."

Wesley felt sick. "Surely you're not serious."

The old man began to chuckle. "I do not jest, my friend. Young Hannah has been crazy for a long, long time."

"And how long has she been here?"

The old man shrugged. "No matter, my friend. And, just so you know, she has you to thank for her disintegration, really."

Wes' brow furrowed. "I don't understand; I've never even seen this girl before!"

The wizened man chuckled. "Not Hannah, Wesley. Your lover, Fred. You're killing her; I'm merely the janitor who sweeps up the pieces."

"_What?_"

The old man pointed to the far wall, where an image seemed to form on the plaster like an old movie; a memory. Wesley saw himself standing in the big board room on the main floor of Wolfram and Hart, surrounded by his friends, the Eye of Animus twined around his hand. The Memory Wesley drew a long deep breath and whispered in Latin; he raised his hand and drew the number 779 in the air.

Wes looked away. He knew what happened next: the world had flashed blue-white for a brilliant second, throwing perception to the edges of the room. The Wesley in the memory lay utterly still, and in the real world Wes could still feel Fred's scream on his skin as he had felt it that night, watching her writhe in his vision. He turned back to the old man as the memory finished, not understanding.

The wrinkled, stained face broke into a frightening smile. "The Kei-An lock, Wesley. It was never meant to be opened, especially not by the likes of you. It set off a chain reaction that cannot be stopped." He chuckled. "Do you know who Kei-An _is_, my friend? Do you know? It is the name of the demigod known as The Soul Stealer."

Wesley blanched. "No."

The man nodded. "Oh, yes, Wesley. You set off the trap. Had the Box never been touched, Fred would have withered away, gone to whatever Afterlife she believed in. But now..." the man held up his gnarled right hand, showing Wesley what he held: a tiny image of Fred sitting in his palm. "Now, she will know pain greater than any that could ever be imagined by mortals." He squeezed.

Even though the hologram—was it a hologram?—was barely larger than his thumb, Wesley could hear Fred screaming, and felt her bones—worn down and weak already from sickness—straining under Kei-An's hold as surely as if they were his own. Anger surged; realization dawned like a glacial frost, sudden and cold.

"You!" Wes snarled, advancing to attack, but Kei-An tapped his wrist provokingly, reminding Wes of the hologram.

"I advise caution, Wesley."

"Why? You're killing her already! I might as well try!"

Kei-An grinned even wider. "And, of course, there is nothing that you can do. Smart boy. Now, the question is, how can I get you to join her?"

There was a sound from behind; Wesley whipped around to see a shadow detach itself from the wall and advance on him, but it was too late. Wes caught a glimpse of the man's face before his assailant hit him; Wesley saw stars explode before his eyes, and then there was nothing at all but one final, amazing realization:

_Ah. The Betrayer. It's him._

-----

Fred's cries didn't last very long; her soul's house ate them up, swallowed them into foreboding silence, until she finally gave up trying to make herself heard. She sat in silence on the bedroom floor, surrounded by debris and chaos, an empty shell. She was nothing. The cold was numbing the pain quickly, but Fred's mind was still reeling; there had never been anything before like this. She had tried to fight it, tried to be strong like she knew she could be, but it was too much. Winifred Burkle had collapsed, letting the pain wash over her in waves, crushing her. She had thought it would be better if she didn't fight it. It wasn't.

_Fred?_ It was not a voice that spoke; it was a thought, but Fred recognized it all the same. Her eyes opened. Smell. Voice. Sound._ Him._

"Wesley?"

He was there. Standing across the room. Facing the door for some reason, with his back to her.

Fred stood, letting her feet carry her across the room, and with only the slightest feeling of dread she took Wesley's sleeve, turned his body, and looked into his face—but Wes' face was no longer there. It had been replaced with a charred, burned mass of flesh that was unrecognizable. Blood dripped from the holes where eyes used to be like tears.

Her hands snapped open, releasing the corpse from her embrace. It slumped against the wall and dissolved into ash.

Fred began to scream. She screamed until the sound held no meaning and her ears were blocking it out, and even then she was unable to stop the terror from rushing through her veins. She screamed and screamed until she, too, began to dissolve—to what nightmare, she could only guess.

-----

Kei-An watched Wesley's body crumple to the floor, and he began to laugh. The old man's figure melted away to reveal the demigod in his true form, a slithering black shadow that dripped blood as it moved.

"You've outdone yourself, Hamilton," he cackled, moving to the cell to watch Hannah cower. "It's all falling into place."

The assassin stepped forward, out of the shadows, into the light.

"Very good, sir. Shall kill him now, or wait for him to wake up?"

Kei-An appeared to shake its head. "No, Hamilton. I have better plans for Wesley. Let him have the last bit of peace he will ever have."

-----

Gunn could barely believe his eyes. Illyria was dead—the nightmare was over. But here she was, seemingly unconscious on Wesley's bed, pale blue eyes open and staring at the ceiling, glassy and dead. Gunn felt anger begin to fire in his blood.

_Wesley. He's killed Fred. He brought Illyria back._

Almost as if in response, Illyria began to sob softly, choking and sputtering, whimpering:

"No," she whispered in a voice that was too frightened and familiar to be that of an Old One. "No, please. Please don't take him. Please…"

Gunn neared the bed, cautious. "Fred?"

Illyria's eyes suddenly widened and came into focus; in a flash her arm shot out and grabbed Gunn's shirtfront.

"Wesley," she whispered. "It just took him."

Gunn froze with fear. "Who took him? Who?"

_The Soul Stealer._ Illyria's unspoken response hung in the air like a curse. "Kei-An…"

The Old One lay back and shuddered violently, shaking and trembling with such ferocity that Gunn closed his eyes, unable to look. Then, his shirt was released and he heard Fred's familiar voice. Screaming.

Gunn's eyes opened just in time to see Fred's body flying at him. She threw her arms around him, screaming, trembling like a leaf.

"Fred? Fred, what is it? What's wrong?"

Fred shook her head, refusing to look up, her screams changing to exhausted sobs. She panted with adrenaline and terror, crying out one word into Gunn's shirt:

"Wesley!"


End file.
